Boxed in.
Around, only four hard walls and a brash mantra of tears.
Pitch rises to ascendance,
a chanting that shifts one’s plane of consciousness.
Another place, hollow to open darkness; tinkling shines on the horizon of nowhere.
No wind to travel swift, the black ocean flat without accord;
submerged under the weight of the world.
Great cavernous echoes reply static nothingness.
The slow journey to arrest;
even boatmen avoid this place… most.
Time to wait. Time to think;
looking forward and thinking back.
Talk alone, sanity to hymn-self out on the subdued waves.
Awaken to a passing light, a barge’s deep subterranean drift-dirge.
Call without chance, vain hope clinging to life.
…but it’s soulless, like the tides here.
Forgotten is the coin, that speeds harvest’s approach.
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